coming with us son? You need attention too.’
‘No, not right now. Where are you taking her?’
‘St. James’s.’ The first ambulance attendant, a stocky man
in his forties with a weathered face and curly graying hair, gave Michael a
direct but not unkindly stare.
‘Listen son, I don’t know what’s gone on here, but I can
assure you of two things: the Garda are right behind us, and you need treatment
for that wound. I suggest you get it looked at by A&E before you do
anything else.’
‘I know someone who can help. Please, get my sister out of
here.’
Without further ado Siobhan was placed in the ambulance,
which pulled away at speed with its siren blaring.
Michael acted quickly. He found a small pack that he knew
Siobhan kept in her room. He filled two empty wine bottles with water, and
fishing the corks from the rubbish bin sealed them as best he could. He found a
pair of scissors in the kitchen drawer. All this he stuffed into the pack. He
then proceeded to the bathroom, where he took two towels and added them to his
haul. He looked into the mirror. His jacket was bloodstained around the right
shoulder, but he had nothing else to wear. He’d lost some blood, but as far as
he could tell it wasn’t affecting him too much – yet.
He ran upstairs to the spare room. In the wardrobe there was
a bundle of cash, which had been destined for the men on the boat delivering
the arms. The weapons themselves had already been paid for, but he’d brought
several thousand pounds to the beach as a delivery payment. He stuffed the
notes under the towels.
He went back to the living room. Placing one hand under the
dead man’s head, he peeled off the balaclava with the other. The man looked to
have been in his mid-thirties, with an inch long scar running vertically from
his left eye. His prone body wasn’t carrying any extra weight and he looked
strong and fit. Ex-army maybe. It wasn’t a face Michael knew from anywhere. He
quickly extinguished the lights and grabbed the pack.
It was only after he’d left the house and been walking for
ten minutes that his shoulder started to hurt. The throb accompanied his
footsteps like a metronome as he walked into the cold Dublin night.
Chapter 5
It was nearing midnight. In the
South Dublin suburb of Blackrock, James O’Donnell was considering one last
nightcap before retiring and surrendering to a whiskey inspired slumber. He
lifted his middle-aged frame from the chair, and deposited the book he’d been
reading on the little table he kept close by. It formed a convenient receptacle
for both book and whiskey glass, but not the bottle. He deliberately kept that
on the far side of the room. In that way he resisted temptation for long enough
to constitute what he considered to be a respectable period of abstinence. Not
that he’d ever actually defined a ‘respectable’ period of abstinence. But
whatever it was, he’d noticed it shortening recently.
‘James bloody Joyce, stream of consciousness rambling,’ he
muttered, crossing the room. ‘Need to be lubricated just to keep up with it.’
He found the bottle and poured himself a generous measure. Then he sat down
again and resumed his reading of Ulysses . This was his second attempt to
get through the entire book without discarding it halfway. Well, he’d passed
the halfway point this time, he thought with a twinge of satisfaction. But it
was never going to be the easiest read as far as he was concerned.
He was jolted out of his musings by a sharp knock at the
front door. Rather late for an unscheduled visit. He once more discarded book
and whiskey glass, and moved across the room to the window. Pushing the curtain
to one side, he looked out.
The house was on the seafront. The living room window, when
fully uncurtained, admitted a pleasant sea view. And if you stood where he was
now, you could also look left and see whoever might be knocking at your front
door. Unfortunately at this time of night only the street